Something in the Dark
by GhyllWyne
Summary: People can surprise you, especially in the dark.


There's nothing in the dark that isn't there when the lights are on. Of course, she knew that. Grown women are not afraid of the dark. Most especially not grown women who are, in every other conceivable way, fearless beyond reason.

She has relished a life of risk-taking. Tried everything from skydiving to mountain climbing without a second's hesitation. She considers speed limits to be suggestions which she universally rejects, no matter the terrain. Sheer drop offs and absent guardrails just add to the fun. No risk is off limits, with that one frustrating proviso. Nothing in the dark.

Perhaps it was this risk-taking that drew her to the people in her life. A husband who made his living outside the law. A brief but memorable career as an exotic dancer in an exclusive club frequented by the most dangerous of Britain's gangster elite. Countless friends, and occasional liaisons, who lived on the edge of the law and often well past it. Even now, decades later in her mundane role as landlady in a genteel section of central London, her gift for attracting danger remained. Danger, but with an intriguing twist.

She had met the young man who now occupies the first floor flat at one of the worst moments of her life. She had just left the office of her solicitor who had delivered the bad news that her husband was likely to beat the murder charges against him, and would soon be free to resume making her life miserable. With that cheery thought in mind, she had walked blindly into the elevator, barely noticing its sole other occupant. Seconds after the doors slid shut, there was a distant heavy thud, the elevator jerked to a halt, and the world went pitch dark.

She sucked in a breath that would have come out on a scream, if not for the fact that her body was frozen in terror. There was a corresponding intake of breath from behind her, but it came out in a weary sigh.

"Oh, do relax. We are in no immediate danger." The voice was male, deep, and decidedly condescending.

She noted his tone with more than a little irritation, and would have told him so if she'd been able to spare the breath. She was already beginning to hyperventilate. Her eyes strained for a glimmer of light, but there was nothing. It felt like her throat was being constricted by invisible hands. Her gasping breaths were very loud. For a few moments, they were the only sounds.

"If you are prone to claustrophobia..." The voice trailed off, but the rest of the thought was clear from his tone. '...do restrain yourself.'

"I am not claustrophobic," she managed in a thin squeak.

The darkness was so complete that it felt like a solid thing, filling the space around her. "Where's the emergency light?" It sounded plaintive, like a child's voice, but she was beyond any embarrassment.

"Not working, obviously," followed by another put-upon sigh .

She resolved to drop dead where she stood before she said another word to this rude stranger. The minutes ticked by like hours as she tried to get herself under control, but it wasn't working. Surely no one's heart could take this level of stress for much longer.

"How can there be no light showing around the edges of the doors?" She had intended that to sound quite matter-of-fact, but the tears in her voice defeated her.

There was a pause, and then "The lights in the corridors must also be out." There was no trace of condescension this time. A few seconds later, the darkness was pushed back by a soft glowing light.

She turned and looked up at a young man holding a mobile phone. His focus was on the phone as his thumbs moved rapidly across its screen. Lit from beneath by the screen, his dark curls and long lashes were striking.

"I am contacting a colleague to find out when the situation will be resolved," he told her as he typed.

"A colleague? Do you work in this building?" He was clearly not a maintenance worker, given what she could see of his attire. Probably a solicitor, and one who could afford the best.

He stopped typing and met her gaze. "No. I consult with the police." His phone pinged, and he returned his attention to a brief text exchange.

"What are they saying?" The light had reduced her distress considerably, but she was still quite eager to be out of here.

"It seems there was a small explosion in the boiler room. The damage was moderate, but the power has been disrupted. They're aware of our situation and expect to free us within the hour."

The phone screen abruptly shut off, and they were in darkness once more. She gasped, and the light came back on a second later. The young man was smiling at her for the first time. "I'm afraid the battery is too low to leave the screen on. We may need to contact someone again in case their estimate of our rescue proves to be overly optimistic." He studied her for a moment. "Would you be more comfortable if we sat down?"

She would certainly feel more steady sitting down, at least. Comfort was unlikely, as long as they remained stuck in this dark box. "Yes, I think I would."

He took her hand and helped her get situated with her back against the far wall, then settled down to her right. "I need to turn off the screen now," he told her with surprising gentleness.

"I was upset when I got on the elevator," she told him. "I misjudged you. You're very kind."

He laughed shortly. "No. I'm not. But you remind me of someone I was very close to when I was a child." He paused. "Why were you upset?"

Her first thought was that he was asking about her reaction to the darkness, but then she realized that he had clearly already picked up on that. "You mean when I got on the elevator?"

"Yes."

She doubted he was really interested. He was trying to distract her, and she was perfectly willing to let him. "I had just been told that my husband is probably going to beat a murder charge he's facing in Florida."

He was silent for a beat. "And you want him to remain in prison."

"I want him to be executed," she shot back, and suddenly found herself telling this stranger all about the last few years of her life, and how she had come to wish such an end for a man she had once moved to another country to be with. The darkness, for once, was a benefit. It freed her, somehow. Telling him things she had shared with no one else made her feel lighter. Unburdened.

He let her talk for a long time before he began asking questions which she answered without hesitation. It was like talking to a confessor. Anonymous and absolving.

When she reached the end of her story, they sat quietly for a few moments.

He cleared his throat. "I told you that I work with the police. I think I can help you, if you'll let me."

This was completely unexpected. "Do you know someone in Florida?"

"No, but from what you've told me, the Florida police are no more effective than Scotland Yard, and they need my help just as badly."

At that moment, the elevator lights came on at full power, blinding her for a few seconds. And then the elevator began to move smoothly downward.

The doors opened onto a lobby filled with scurrying people, one of whom was a man with a clipboard who asked if she had been injured and took down her contact information. Then he turned to the young man who had kept her sane for the past hour, and she learned his name for the first time.

When the man with the clipboard had concluded his business with them and hurried off, she said, "Thank you, Mr Holmes."

"I haven't done anything yet."

She took his right hand in both of hers and held on, even when he flinched slightly. "Don't be modest. I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here. Now, were you serious about helping me, or were you just keeping me occupied? I don't want to take advantage of your kindness."

"I was serious," he said as he briefly squeezed her hands, then gently freed his own.

She looked down at her abandoned hands and dropped them to her sides. "You don't like being touched. I'm sorry."

"Never apologize, Mrs Hudson. Certainly not for mistaking me for a better person. It's a common error. I'm afraid you'll realize the truth soon enough."

Ignoring what she'd just learned, she reached out and took him firmly by both hands and said sternly, "Please save that pose for other people. I know better, and you will never convince me otherwise. Anyone who disagrees better not do it where I can hear them. That includes you, by the way."

He looked surprised for a moment, and then his gaze turned soft and unfocused, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile that was a little sad. "If I believed in reincarnation..."

She gave his hands a squeeze and let go. "Someday you'll have to tell me about this person I remind you of."

"Of course." He seemed to have surprised himself with that. "First order of business is to get out of this crowd and discuss your situation in some detail so I can make my way to the state of Florida."

They took a cab to her home and drank tea at her kitchen table for hours, and her regard for this complicated young man continued to deepen His razor sharp mind dazzled her, and her confidence in his ability to help her made this feel like the answer to a prayer she had never dared to voice.

Two weeks to the day later, Sherlock Holmes dropped by to tell her that his work was completed. He was confident that her husband would soon find his circumstances changed for the worse. She asked him in for tea, and she insisted on at least compensating him for expenses. He declined both.

"I don't do this for the money," he told her.

She accepted his decision, adding that if he ever needed anything, she would be here for him. That had drawn a rare smile. He believed her, he'd said. And then he was gone.

She didn't see him again for nearly three years, and their reunion broke her heart. He appeared at her door one bitter night just before Christmas, high as a kite. She had an unfortunate amount of experience with drug addicts, thanks to her late husband's chosen profession, and Sherlock's condition was painfully obvious. What had brought him to her door was never clear, but she felt certain that he would not have lived for very long if he'd ended up anywhere else. She had sat up with him all that night, then kept him hydrated and warm for the next four days while the poison worked out of his system.

They had kept in touch more or less regularly after that, exchanging mobile numbers and texting at least once a week. Sometimes his answers were terse, and other times he would entertain her for an hour or more with that rapier wit.

When the tenant in 221b moved out, she was delighted to find that her first applicant for the vacancy was Sherlock. He had appeared at her door the morning after she had posted the notice, looking healthy and full of energy, the good kind this time.

"Oh, Sherlock, of course you can have it. I wish I could give it to you free, but I'll get as close as I can."

"Nothing of the kind. I will pay the advertised rate."

She smiled. There had been no mention of the rate in the advert, so she was free to tell him whatever she pleased, and the amount that pleased her was the bare minimum to cover expenses.

He had returned a few hours later in a cab loaded with boxes, and then a few days after that with another young man in tow who he introduced as Dr John Watson. She knew her life would never be the same again, and she could not have been more pleased.

She soon came to think of Sherlock and John as family. She could not have loved them more if they had been her sons, so of course she worried about them endlessly. Sadly, there was often good reason to be concerned.

Probably the most amazing change in her life was her fear of the dark. The panic was still there, but its edge had been permanently blunted. If not for her terror that day in the elevator, she would not have touched the heart of the young man whose unexpected act of kindness had made all the difference.


End file.
